Harry Finkle observes the world from his comfy armchair. He never actually manages to move his backside from it that often, in fact he prises himself from it using block and tackle when the needs descend as it were and he must.
The telivision is his gateway to a dark nirvana.
News channels are flicked through endlessly, as he stares at the disasters, tragedies and mundanities with the clinical eye of a twit.
News readers, the university educated people who read from idiot boards can be the brunt of his disdain. "For goodness sake, I can do that" he bellows, this uttered through slipping dentures and an accent you could cut with a knife.
Watching sporting events on the T.V. is a great joy for Harry, he can vent his spleen upon the mediocrity he sees before him in the certain knowledge that he is completely past it. "Call that playing football, in my day the ball was made of lead and now the only lead I can see is on the shoulders of the Namby Pamby boys".
Safer viewing comes in the guise of detective programmes, endlessly watching the repeats of the repeats, until suddenly 'eureka' the plot and the murderer become crystal clear to him. He was mistaken about the butler, the maid, the doddery old aunt and the murderer was definitively not disguised as the family dog.
Watching politics can be an ordeal for anybody in the same vicinity as Harry at the time, but the ranting usually ends with the same old mantra. "A revolution is what we need. If only I was fifty years younger, I would lead the great rebellion. We would live in a new Britain, one fit for heroes".
Actually in his youth Harry was busy smoking, drinking, placing bets with the bookies, skiving when he could and chasing after women.
You see, he was quite sane, once upon a time.